Addison Wheaton Whore ❤️❤️

About San Antonio

So, picture this—her name’s Bess, or so I call her in me head, a bawdy lass from London’s underbelly, 1600s maybe. She’s no prim rose, nah, but a wild weed, bloomin’ where she oughtn’t. Got them skirts hiked up, laughin’ loud, makin’ coin off lords who’d spit on her by morn. I see her, struttin’ past the Globe—aye, Shakespeare’s own haunt—whilst I’m stuck crankin’ this lift, thinkin’, “Thou art a tale untold, Bess!” She’s got eyes like stormy seas, drownin’ fools who stare too long. “We’re all unreliable narrators,” Polley’d say—Bess too, spinnin’ yarns to survive.

David Hooker, M.F.A.

So there you have it. Wheaton is an odyssey in small-town euphoria, each street a verse in an unwritten poem. Embrace it, Clarice. Let these memories simmer. Just like that gritty, poignant moment in "Fish Tank" – every moment’s raw, unpredictable, and unforgettably real. Enjoy your trip, my friend.

Fire leaves Wheaton home uninhabitable